Be Gone
by CNGB
Summary: The punishment for life is death. Of this, Dally is sure.


"**Be Gone"**

_**by CNGB**_

_**This one-shot is dedicated to Amber, an ex-classmate of mine who recently took her life. Rest in peace.**_

_**Special thanks to:**_

_**S. E. Hinton, who wrote The Outsiders.**_

_**Edgar Allan Poe, for creating "The Bells."**_

_**.**_

_**Prescripto13 and demonfox910 for reviewing "The Post War Dream."**_

_**Kari-Kateora for favoriting "The Post War Dream."**_

**Word count: 1,205**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Swearing; suicide/homicide**

**Additional note: I am not saying that these thoughts that this one-shot holds are exactly what were running through Dally's mind. It is merely what _may_ have happened.**

**Categories: Tragedy**

**Legal junk: I do not own _The Outsiders_; I do not own "The Bells."**

**It is important to note that this one-shot was inspired by part four of Edgar Allan Poe's terrific poem, "The Bells" (which is provided right below this). Because of that, this was the final one-shot out of four dedicated to said poem. You can find the other three on my profile. They happen to go in this order: "Falling Snow"; "The Protector"; and "The Post War Dream."**

_Hear the tolling of the bells—  
>Iron bells!<br>What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!  
>In the silence of the night,<br>How we shiver with affright  
>At the melancholy menace of their tone!<br>For every sound that floats  
>From the rust within their throats<br>Is a groan.  
>And the people -ah, the people—<br>They that dwell up in the steeple,  
>All alone,<br>And who tolling, tolling, tolling,  
>In that muffled monotone,<br>Feel a glory in so rolling  
>On the human heart a stone—<br>They are neither man nor woman—  
>They are neither brute nor human—<br>They are Ghouls:  
>And their king it is who tolls;<br>And he rolls, rolls, rolls,  
>Rolls<br>A paean from the bells!  
>And his merry bosom swells<br>With the paean of the bells!  
>And he dances, and he yells;<br>Keeping time, time, time,  
>In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br>To the paean of the bells,  
>Of the bells—<br>Keeping time, time, time,  
>In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br>To the throbbing of the bells,  
>Of the bells, bells, bells—<br>To the sobbing of the bells;  
>Keeping time, time, time,<br>As he knells, knells, knells,  
>In a happy Runic rhyme,<br>To the rolling of the bells,  
>Of the bells, bells, bells—<br>To the tolling of the bells,  
>Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br>Bells, bells, bells—  
>To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.<em>

* * *

><p>Death sounded like a pretty damn good option.<p>

_Oh _fuck_ this is . . . this is . . . ._

Real.

Dally ran as fast as he possibly could from the phone booth. The rest of the gang would see him one last time. One final time, before he was going to die.

For Dallas Winston had caused too much trouble with the fuzz for them to not be pissed at him. Not that they were never pissed, of course; it's just that this was going to be an exception.

And how was it going to be an exception?

Dally had a gun.

It wasn't loaded, but hot _damn_ it made a good bluff! And Dally knew that all he needed to do for his plan to work was to get the fuzz right where he wanted them, and then he would turn the gun on them, and they would think that he was going to shoot, but Dally wasn't, he was going to be shot, he was going to die.

Why?

Dally didn't have much in the world. He was hardened on the streets of New York as a young child, and if that hadn't made him cold and indifferent, then what would? Yeah, he'd traveled far. _Too fucking far_, he thought angrily; if he hadn't have come there . . . he would never have known Johnny, he would never have had to feel that pain that he had felt at first.

At first. Not anymore. Now, Dally _was_ nothing. Dally was gone. He was nothing more than a shell, running and running and running some more, away from the cops, until the rest of the gang could see him. He wanted them to see him. He wanted them to understand—because he _knew_ that everyone of those damn motherfuckers outside the gang were too fucking stupid to _get_ it. He _needed_ them to understand. Because guess what?

Damn it all to hell!

Dallas Winston did not go down because he had been cornered.

Dallas Winston did not go down because he had been weak.

Dallas Winston did not go down because the fuzz was too fast, too strong, too powerful.

Dallas Winston did not go down because he was an idiot.

Dallas Winston did not go down because he was just another one of them motherfucking hoodlums that would be out of the spotlight soon enough, now that Johnny was dead.

Dallas Winston would go down because he _wanted_ to go down.

He would not be cornered. Very soon, the gang would be near enough to see him. The fuzz were already on his trail, so he didn't have to worry about them not being close enough.

And weak? What utter _bull shit_! Dally was most certainly NOT weak! The way he looked at it, if you could live in the bad side of New York, there was no fucking way you could be weak. It was impossible.

The fuzz—_strong_? HA! They were anything but. If Dally was right—and he was—they made nearly every undeserving penny they got from antagonizing someone who didn't need the fuzzs' shit. Cops were weak. Pathetic. A bunch of real _pigs_.

And how in the world would Dally be an idiot if he had sense enough to save Johnnycake and Pony? No, fuck that shit. Dally was a smart guy—smart enough to organize a plan that would make the cops go against their own laws of suicide, at any rate.

He was done.

It was that simple.

He was done.

Done with everything. Done with feeling, done with cops, done with the Greasers, done with fucking _life_! He was _so_ _fucking sick of it_, and there was no reason for him to continue on living.

Dally had once heard someone say that once a person lost everything that they cared about, there was no reason to keep on living.

He just so happened to agree.

That was why he was going to give up the ghost. That was why he was letting the fuzz stay near him. That was why he had called the gang from where ever the fuck they had just so happened to be.

Maybe Johnnycake had been right . . . maybe there wasn't any sense to the fighting . . . maybe Dally had been just a bit wrong . . . .

Nah.

Johnnycake had been an idiot. He had played the hero, and he had died for it. _Died!_ He was FUCKING DEAD! And it was all because Johnny had allowed himself to care a bit too much.

With a grim smile, Dally realized that that was the exact same thing about him. Dally cared too much about Johnny—way too much. And now that Johnny was dead, he couldn't find it in him to live anymore.

What was emotion? He could not remember.

What was it like to feel pain? He could not remember.

What was it like to feel happy? He could not remember.

It was almost as if, with Johnny's death, came an utter confusion over Dally.

No, there was no "almost"; that was _exactly_ what had happened.

However, the confusion didn't matter too much. That only counted if he was no longer able to think about what he needed to do next. Once he was dead, he wouldn't have to think anymore. He wouldn't have to worry about trying to feel anymore. He wouldn't have to worry about remembering Johnny's tentatively smiling face anymore. And he sure as hell wouldn't have to worry about simple _survival_.

The night air was whipping past him as he ran. His muscles didn't hurt, though, and that wasn't because of all of his practice of running. Rather, it was actually because he was numb. So very, very numb. And this kinda numb, it surpassed that emotion-thing everybody talks about. This one was surpassing everything Dally had ever felt before.

Mainly because he _wasn't_ feeling a damn thing.

Not that Dally was complaining. Oh, no! He was eternally grateful that he no longer felt the kind of agony that he had right after Johnnycake's death. It was better this way; it was better not to feel that kinda stuff. Dally would much rather go out satisfied—not happy, because happy had never really been available for him—than anything else.

What was it that was making him move? He didn't know anymore.

And, hell fire, there they were—the gang, running towards him. They had seen him pro'lly before he'd seen them. And behind him, there were those godforsaken cops.

It was time.

He whipped out his gun and spun around to face the red and blue lights. He knew they didn't know that the gun was loaded. He knew that his plan was going to succeed even before they had had time to pull out their own guns.

_Pow!—Pow!—Pow!—Pow!—Pow!—Pow!_

The familiar sound of gunshots were being fired.

Vaguely, Dally was aware of stinging sensations all up and down his body, but he didn't really mind much.

He was fading . . . fading . . . fading out of existence—forever. He would never ever be back. He was . . . white.

He had been right.

Death _was_ a pretty damn good option.

* * *

><p><strong>There isn't too much to say about this one-shot, except that I did enjoy writing this.<strong>

**If you are interested in the other parts to this series of one-shots, then you shouldn't have too much trouble finding them at all.**

**Hope you guys enjoyed!**

**- CNGB**


End file.
